And Unto Dust
by WhirligigSwirl
Summary: Some things are inevitable. Death is one of them.


**A/N: Reading angst fic does this to me.**

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"John. John, please." Sherlock grasped at his friend's hand, fingers aching. John smiled gently, then coughed, deep, rattling coughs that filled his chest and shook his whole frame.

"Sherlock," he murmured softly, ruffling his hair. Though Sherlock had always had thicker hair than the doctor in their younger days, Sherlock's was thinner now than it had ever been. "You'll be alright. And I'm tired."

"No, John, you do not say that!" Sherlock hissed fiercely, pressing his other hand to John's face. His joints ached with arthritic pain, and his fingers spasmed, skittering down John's face. "Please," he murmured again. "It's too soon, we've only been here a few months, we-"

Wincing, John reached up from where he lay propped among the pillows and took Sherlock's hand in his, rubbing clumsily at the joints. "You've your bees, Sherlock, you'll be fine. But I really can't do anything to stop this." He paused to cough again, covering his mouth, and when he pulled the handkerchief away from his mouth, there was blood on the fabric. That particular, loud sign of John's body shutting down had begun almost two weeks ago, and the doctor John had consented to see about it simply told Sherlock to keep him comfortable; there was nothing he could do.

"I've seen a lot of death, Sherlock-" John began, but Sherlock cut him off with a low hiss of breath.

"You _are not dying!_" he said defiantly, hands shaking in John's grip. He wished he could kneel beside the bed, be closer to John's face, but his back and hips and knees all screamed in protest whenever he tried, so he was kept apart from his blogger and friend by the demands of his body and a wooden chair at his bedside, pressed as close to the bed as his own knees would allow. John pressed his hand gently, summoning him back to the present.

"Listen to me, you silly git," John said softly, looking up at him. "I'm a doctor, and I was a soldier all that time ago. What's it been, thirty years? I've seen people die, Sherlock, from shrapnel and bullets and cancer and childbirth gone wrong. And I can tell you for a fact that Death and I are very good acquaintances, if not quite friends. I know when he comes to call."

Small wrinkles fanned around John's eyes, evidence of a lifetime spent smiling at his detective's antics. His warm blue eyes sparkled in amusement as he quirked his lips at the detective, and there, just along the curve of his jaw, was the small pink line that could be mistaken for a wrinkle, evidence of their run-in years ago with a Dr. Roylott. Sherlock focused on tucking all these facts away, updating his mind palace and the rooms that held everything to do with John, down to his personal scent beneath the soap and cologne and antiseptic.

"Please, John," Sherlock murmured softly, eyes going slightly hazy. Irritated, he blinked away tears- how dare they obstruct his view of his friend? Sherlock leaned down stiffly and wrapped his arm around the back of John's shoulders, lifting him a bit to give him an awkward, one-armed hug. John made a soft noise and wrapped his free arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Try and look after yourself, yeah?" John pressed a soft, almost paternal kiss to Sherlock's temple, hand rubbing softly down his spine. Sherlock shifted in his seat, closer to John, filing away with the greatest care every aspect of the strength and warmth of John's body in his arms. Sherlock nodded- he knew, after John was gone, he really wouldn't have anything; nice bees might be, but even Mycroft and Lestrade had left them all alone. It was only him and John, now, and he didn't want to lose him yet. It was too soon.

"Sherlock?" The sound of his name yanked Sherlock from his reverie. John was yawning, relaxing back into the pillows. "I said, could I please have some tea?" Sherlock blinked, and then nodded.

"I'll be right back," he said softly. He hugged John again, tightly enough to feel every one of his ribs, then slipped his arm from around his shoulders. He stood, slowly and stiffly, and made his way into the kitchen, puttering about with a slowness that disgusted him- he still felt young enough to leap fences and race across London, the swinging free movement of which his body now staunchly denied him, had for a long time. Perhaps he should have taken better care of himself in his youth, eaten when John told him. Finally, though, after fifteen minutes, he padded slowly down the hall to John's bedroom.

"I used the honey, John," he said softly, setting the tea at John's bedside. He began to sit, then realized that John hadn't responded. That was _wrong_. After all these years together, the two had grown so close that, often, for the sake of convenience, they would share a bed, limbs tangled innocently around the other. And by the time the came to Sussex, they were so attuned to each other that even in sleep, they responded with little snuffles or grumbles to each other's voice. Sherlock froze, closing his eyes, searching the past twelve seconds for any response John might have made him, Then they snapped open, full of anguish. John's chest was still and his eyes closed. Sherlock didn't need to take his wrist between his fingers to know that there would be no pulse.

Sherlock abandoned the bees. He sold the little country estate, to a young couple with bright fake smiles and a baby on the way. He gave them the honey, and the Epi-pens. He wouldn't need them.

He moved into a bedsit. He owned a large library of books, and these he brought with him. He spent his days on the porch, book in one hand, fingers of the other curled around a small silver chain and the smooth metal plates that rested just beneath his clavicle. Sometimes he spoke out loud. No one talked to him, the crazy old man with the flyaway hair. But that didn't matter.

"Oh, Lestrade, you see, that's why he was able to do that- I always meant to search this bit up again, but then there was that one about the crutch."

"Mycroft, you smarmy git, this is why I didn't want to work for you. Government workers, on average, live ten years less than the rest of the populace."

"Mrs. Hudson, you never used a cook book, and your cakes were far better than this rot."

He drank tea, sugar and thick milk, and sometimes nibbled a plate of biscuits. At sunset, he'd push himself to standing and hobble inside, left hand wrapped around a thin metal cane with a worn hand grip.

He never spoke to his blogger. His blogger lived in his head now, and in the evenings when he sat inside his bedsit, staring at the wall and not moving, he would show John around, room after room thrown wide to reveal their contents. John in his mind palace was the same as the day he met him, strong and sure and limp-free. Sherlock was a young man, bounding down the halls, deducing that John had found the kitchen index today, where he kept recipes and eyeballs.

One day the old man made no appearance on the porch. His neighbors frowned but didn't say anything. In his room, a smell slowly built around the stiff, lean line of old muscles and bones in the bed which had once been occupied by the greatest mind of that time. The little boy across the road carefully drew his bow across the strings, biting his lip to keep the note of the violin strong and unwavering as his brother watched. The world turned, and forgot Sherlock Holmes, and no one was the wiser when a brief funeral left a second body in the ground beneath a stone. A gray-black stone, marked very simply "SH & JW".

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**A/N: Title from the Catholic invocation, "Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris", which translates roughly to "Remember, man, you are dust, and unto dust you shall return."**


End file.
